


Warm as Memory

by whitachi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 10:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitachi/pseuds/whitachi
Summary: There's a lot of blood on Connor. It's not his, but Hank isn't convinced.





	Warm as Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to all my Jerries in robocop-yaoi, I'd be nothing without you. I'm gonna kick David Cage's nuts into the sun.

Hank didn't speak to him at all in during the drive back from the crime scene. He didn't turn music on in the car, either, which was unusual. Connor could see from his scans that his heartbeat was slightly elevated, but that was to be expected from the danger they'd just faced. His adrenaline was probably still dropping; he was only human, after all.

Hank parked the car outside of his house and, to Connor's surprise, opened the door for him before he could get out himself. He walked like a trundling bear to his front door and opened it, and Connor followed inside. Sumo gave a soft, low bark as the two of them entered, and Hank patted him on the head in a way Connor could clearly register as perfunctory.

"Lieutenant, is something wrong?" Connor said as Hank let out a rough breath.

"If you could see yourself you wouldn't ask me that," Hank said. Connor took an inventory of his current personal state. He was uninjured after the encounter with the two violent AB400s, but the other android had taken significant damage in the confrontation between them, their former owner, and Hank and Connor as representatives of the Detroit Police Department. Thus, he was covered in a substantial amount of blue blood.

"I'm not injured, if that's what you're worried about," Connor said, and Hank simply continued to glower at him. "I know it was a tight situation, but my system diagnostics indicate I'm entirely fine."

Hank pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath. "Look, Connor, just humor me, okay?" He grabbed Connor by the shoulder and pushed him towards the bathroom.

Once inside, Hank let out a long, weary-sounding sigh. "Get your clothes off, okay? I want to give you a look over, make sure you're okay." His voice was soft and irritated all at once. "They're trashed anyway. I'll get you something else to wear."

"None of the blood is mine, I assure you, lieutenant," Connor said, but Hank continued to look at him, stern and serious. Connor had grown to appreciate doing what Hank asked of him, though, so he began to remove his tie and unbutton his shirt.

"I'll just sleep better tonight if I see it with my own eyes, alright?" He lifted a hand to his brow and rubbed his forehead. "I saw you covered in blood like that and I just..." He shook his head and stopped speaking.

"Just what?" Connor said, bloodied, torn jacket removed and shirt mostly unbuttoned.

"It wasn't good," Hank said. His eyes were on Connor's body where the fabric parted. "Leave it at that, it wasn't good."

As Connor continued to undress, he rejected the directive from within him to smile; though he was happy to know of Hank's concern for him, he knew that the lieutenant would be displeased to see him anything but serious at this moment of seeming stress. He dropped his blue-stained jacket, tie, and shirt to the floor of the bathroom.

"Fuck, it's on your skin, too," Hank said, and he stepped in close to Connor as he began to unfasten his pants. Hank placed a hand on the center of his chest, where some blue blood had soaked through his clothes to mark him. He went completely still as Hank touched him, his fingers moving through the dried blood, over his skin.

"It's not my blood, Hank," he said. Hank's fingers stayed on him, though. They were warm against his skin -- the lieutenant ran perpetually at just .2 degrees higher than the standard human blood temperature of 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Hank's heartbeat was still elevated, and his breathing was quicker than normal. Hank's fingers moved stickily through the blood and Connor registered every whorl of his fingerprints as they moved.

"I just have to be sure, okay?" Hank said as he put a hand on Connor's back, the full weight of his palm pressing between his shoulders. It was so warm. It was so warm, and it was pressed to his skin. No one had ever touched Connor there before. "I have to keep you in one piece, you idiot. No one's replacing you anymore."

"I can still get repaired," Connor replied calmly as he toed out of his shoes and pushed his pants, which were getting stiff from dried blood, down off his hips. "It's not very difficult, and it doesn't hurt."

"Look, just shut up and let me do this," Hank said, and Connor did as he asked. Hank looked him over, brushing his hands over his skin where it was tinged blue with blood. He let out a soft "huh" when he looked at Connor's groin, but eventually he seemed to be satisfied Connor was unbroken. His heart was still quick, though.

Connor stood there before him, bloodied clothes in a heap beside him, and stretched out his arms lightly. "Are you convinced that I made it out alive?" he said, and decided to risk the smile then. Hank wrinkled up his nose in a way that Connor had learned was actually a positive reaction.

"Take a shower, okay? You've got blood in your goddamn hair somehow, and I don't like looking at it." He looked over Connor one last time, and the expression on his face was, for just an infinitesimally small moment, soft. "I'll get you clothes." Hank covered his face. "I need a drink."

Hank left the bathroom and didn't close the door all the way. Connor stepped into the shower and regarded the taps with interest. He'd never actually taken a shower before, but he was familiar enough with the concept. He'd always heard that hot showers were relaxing, and he knew that the left tap was for hot water, so he twisted that on before pulling the curtain back and switching the shower on.

The water hit his chest and he felt the heat of it as it washed the dried blood on his stomach and his thighs away. The water steamed as it hit his chest, and he placed a hand over where Hank's fingers had touched him. The water pouring onto him was so much hotter, but the memory of Hank's touch there felt like the hottest thing he'd ever experienced.

Connor ducked his head into the water to wet his hair, feeling the heat of it trickle down over his face. He could see why humans enjoyed this, though the steam made it difficult to see. He closed his eyes and replayed the memory of Hank's hand resting on his back. The heat of the water was good, but it wasn't nearly as good as it had felt to be touched, skin to skin. Connor played the memory back a few times as he allowed the water to fall over him, the heat of the present slipping into the ghost of the past.

If he took too long in the shower, Connor realized, Hank might begin to worry about him. He never wanted to worry Hank. He turned off the tap and drew away the curtain. The bathroom was thick with steam, the mirror entirely fogged up. He took a towel from the rack and as he brought it up to dry his hair, paused. It smelled strongly of Hank, and he stuck out his tongue to lick it lightly. His analysis showed the lieutenant's skin particles, some of his hair, and a significant amount of mildew. Hank needed to wash his towels more often; Connor would have to remind him of such. He put his face into the towel and took in the scent before drying himself off completely.

Hank had slipped in at some point while he was in the shower and taken away Connor's ruined clothes, leaving some folded up replacements on the lid of the toilet. Connor stepped into a pair of clearly old plaid flannel pajama pants and drew the drawstring tight. The t-shirt he pulled over his head was black, soft, far too large for him, and said on it in red letters "I'm Not Antisocial, I Just Don't Like You." 

Connor stepped out into the rest of the house to find Hank sitting at his kitchen table, a drink of whiskey in front of him, Sumo resting at his feet. When he saw Connor, he knocked back the rest of his drink and stood up.

"Worried you might have slipped down the drain," Hank said, with a small smile on his lips.

"I never wanted to worry you, Hank," Connor said, and after running through the memory of Hank's hand on his back another three times, stepped forward to slip his arms around Hank's waist, trying again for another embrace like the one they'd had once before.

Hank took a moment to respond, and then his arms were around Connor, holding him tight. "Yeah, well, you just gotta be more careful," he said. His hand rested between Connor's shoulder blades in the same place he'd touched before. "There's only one Connor."

Connor rested his head against Hank's shoulder, rubbing his cheek faintly against the fabric there. It smelled like him, it smelled like the towel, it smelled _good_. It felt good, and Connor knew he wanted to chase the things that felt good. He was free to have them now. He had earned them. He deserved them.

"Only one you've got, at least, lieutenant," he said, and counted the paces of Hank's still-elevated heartrate.

Hank let out a short laugh. "God help me if I ever have any more," he said, but didn't let go of Connor. He kept his hand there, solidly on his back, warm as water, warm as memory, warm as life.

**Author's Note:**

> Now featuring art by [2copshavingsex](https://twitter.com/2copshavingsex/status/1074499660075724800)!


End file.
